


Perfect Storm

by FaultyParagon



Series: RWBY AUs [16]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clover Ebi-centric, Drama & Romance, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Fishing, Gen, Heartache, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Ocean, Patch (RWBY), Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 1-1.5 Hours, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, This is verbose and angsty because we are here for the y e a r n i n g, Yearning, fair game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: Where water turns to foam and the horizon runs far in the distance, Clover will meet his soulmate. And when he does, he does not know whether he will try to hold onto whoever that person is.Where cliff sides meet raging seas and the green forests betray no indication that they will soon be barren and skeletal, Qrow will have to make a decision: whether a soulmate is worth giving up the one you love; whether anything is worth giving up on a memory.-aka Clover and Qrow are both terrified of finding their soulmates for very different reasons. Soulmate Modern AU. Fair Game.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen & Taiyang Xiao Long, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Summer Rose (one-sided), Raven Branwen/Taiyang Xiao Long, Summer Rose/Taiyang Xiao Long
Series: RWBY AUs [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690948
Comments: 21
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's yet another thing that's been sitting on my computer for a while. Let me know what you think!
> 
> The podfic is now available! Check it out:
> 
> Chapter 1: [Part 1](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/628655861458518017/podfic-for-part-18-chapter-1-part-1-of) \- [Part 2](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/628709998302806016/podfic-for-part-28-chapter-1-part-2-of)  
> Chapter 2: [Part 1](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/628800592873144320/podfic-for-part-38-chapter-2-part-1-of) \- [Part 2](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/628891075957899264/podfic-for-part-48-chapter-2-part-2-of)  
> Chapter 3: [Part 1](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/628981663141117953/podfic-for-part-58-chapter-3-part-1-of) \- [Part 2](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/629072270172831744/podfic-for-part-68-chapter-3-part-2-of)  
> Chapter 4: [Part 1](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/629162853245550592/podfic-for-part-78-chapter-4-part-1-of) \- [Part 2](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/629253452171771905/podfic-for-part-88-chapter-4-part-2-of)

The marks are mirrored on someone else’s flesh somewhere in the world, and Clover cannot care less.

His wrist has been inked with the tiny emblem for as long as he can remember. From birth, the tiny insignia has unfurled year by year upon the inside of his right wrist, growing more and more defined as chubby arms grew into lanky, bony limbs, eventually gaining weight and muscle mass and strength beyond measure; his skin darkens just as his hair does over time until he is lightly tanned, dun-brown strands swept back, exposing his mild widow’s peak; but that tattoo growing upon his wrist never fades, always visible to his eye. It is a curious image; he wonders whether it is in the shape of an eye or a bird’s wing, or some exotic flower that perhaps lives upon the isles off the coast of Vacuo for which he has no name. When he was young, he often speculated the kind of person who might be represented by avian feathers and clockwork and irises which peer into the soul, but even now as an adult, Clover cannot begin to fathom a guess as to whose soul is apparently so indelibly linked with his own.

He does not care if he finds them. His parents chide him often for that; the two of them are happy, but the soulmate mark on his mother’s nape has nothing to do with his father, and his father’s tattooed little finger mirrors nothing on his mother. They are not meant to be, but they have made do, and they have found a little life of peace and tranquility despite knowing that they were never _meant_ for one another.

What does it mean, to be ‘meant’ for another?

And yet, the two constantly chide Clover for his lack of motivation to find the one with whom his heart is intertwined. Clover thinks the entire thing is absolutely ridiculous; all he knows is that his soulmate is older than him, since his mark has been present since the day he was born. That is nowhere near enough information upon which to base a search for the singular person in all of Remnant whose tattoo might reflect Clover Ebi’s personality, whatever that might be.

Clover thinks the mark which represents him will be a horseshoe. He’s always been lucky, after all; but clovers don’t grow in Atlas, so how lucky could he really be?

But just as clovers do not grow in Atlas, Clover does not know whether or not _he_ will always grow in Atlas. He does not know where his roots lie. Perhaps that is why he continues to travel across the world whenever he has a vacation, packing up nothing but his fishing gear and enough lien to support a few drunken nights in the peace and quiet and the heat which Solitas can never provide; there are never any expectations during these trips, just the quiet knowledge that he will become well acquainted with the nearest peaceful dock and his meager hotel room.

The only flair he keeps on him is his pin, his own personal emblem. It is naught but a four-leaf clover, the green paint chipped away slightly at the corners after so many years of wearing it day in, day out upon his lapel. His mother had given it to him as a child, insisting that his soulmate would never even realize Clover existed without some indication to _look,_ since life upon Solitas demanded gloves to cover up any exposed wrists at all times. He has long given up on the idea of getting rid of it. It is a part of him now.

He also fishes best when wearing it. He’ll never admit that that’s the main reason he takes it with him, though.

His wanderlust and his yearly vacation are what brings him to the tiny island of Patch, his first steps off the boat upon a creaking pier enough to invigorate him from head to toe. The salty, crisp ocean air is revitalizing, the breeze somehow warm despite the speed rising enough to cause visibly choppy waters farther out into the ocean. He waves in thanks to the sailors who have brought him over on their small vessel, for they have kept him safe despite an incoming storm that promises to be wild and damp and bring all the ferocity of the seas and the skies that Clover himself can rarely experience, isolated upon the icy northern continent as he usually is.

Despite his lack of familiarity with the small island off the coast of the city of Vale, Clover finds his way around easily. There’s a sense of nostalgia in this place, he realizes; an ease with which he can traverse friendly streets, the signs all painfully simple and clear with their one-word monikers listing exactly what service they provide. _Barber. Grocer. Clothing. Toys._ It is so unlike anything he sees in his daily life in Atlas, where everything is complicated and political and too uptight for its own good. He likes that straightforward earnestness, the slouch of everyone’s shoulders, the braying laughs he can hear from sailors on the pier and the strangers who all know one another upon the street with the manner of long-lost friends who just haven’t met yet. It is sweet and simple; everything he needs to unwind after another hectic season.

He beelines for the liquor shop and grocer, mentally thanking his own previous anxiety for having already downloaded the map of the island onto his Scroll with the route to his hotel laid out for him. If he wants to explore at all that day, he needs to hurry.

The giant _Hotel_ sign is just as easy to spot as everything else in the tiny community just off the stormy waters. Clover finds himself looking upwards; this hub is built much closer to sea level than the rest of the island, for giant, jagged cliffs topped with lush greenery stand high and imposing above his head, forcing him to crane his neck backwards to even catch a glimpse of the canopy far above. The beaches extended off onto either side show much of the same cliff side. So, the moment he enters his hotel and has picked up his keys, he promptly asks a few key questions of the front desk staffer to orient himself: first off, where the best fishing spots are located versus where the most popular spots are found; second, what rests atop the cliff, all along the main level of the island; and finally, what is the best place to find some good food that won’t also destroy his meager vacation fund.

The map upon his Scroll is marked up with a few potential destinations within minutes, along with the staffer’s recommendations for restaurants. The second question’s response is surprisingly banal, though. “It’s just the rural folk,” the man explains with a casual shrug. “Lots of cottages and little families up there. There are a few roads leading up the cliff if you go northeast along the beaches, so if you’d like to go check it out, you can.”

Clover smiles and thanks the man, then dumps his belongings within his room. It is but a small, quaint affair, with a short double bed and homely wallpaper, a vase full of plastic flowers adding a veneer of cheap, yet endearing authenticity to the room that Clover finds surprisingly wholesome. The small fridge in the corner is where he stores his premade meal for the evening and his liquor, and the shower works well enough, so soon he is clean after the long journey across the world and ready to go exploring before the storm sets in and his hunger overtakes him.

He probably should not go outside with branches of the trees outside his window beginning to stir in a frenzy that promises future violence. He does so anyways, leaving his contact information with the front desk to ensure that if he is not back by midnight, it will not be of his own volition. The staffer gives him a strange, uneasy look, but Clover pays it no mind; he has faced far more violent seas than this budding storm, and he knows how to play it safe. His little brooch will only grant him so much luck, after all. It’s not like he’s the superstitious type anyways.

With hands in his pockets and eyes upon the horizon, Clover sets forth upon the southwest road wrapping around the island opposite to the roads leading above. According to the map, there should be a tiny fishing hole a good twenty minute walk from the small port town, and he is more than eager to find the place where he shall be wiling away the hours until the end of the week.

Clover cannot help but breathe in deep, basking in the salty tang of the air, the briny taste upon his tongue, the crunch of sediment and sand and seashells under his thick-soled boots as he makes his way off of asphalt and onto a path beaten into the island by time. The horizon is so grey in the distance that he cannot see where it meets the ocean, the view behind the nearby swirling waters nothing but a massive wall of blurring texture and stormy grey. It’s oddly beautiful, looking out only to see the ocean mirroring the sky, the wind bring salt water up to sting his eyes, his tears causing cumulonimbus bases and ridges in the sand to fade away into one large mosaic of pent-up energy and motion.

He grins. The fishing spot should be nearby.

Before he can arrive, however, he notices something standing down the water-worn path upon a large rock. Not something, he realizes; some _one,_ their stance loose and relaxed as they gaze into the distance, just as Clover had been only moments before. Gusty winds brush grey-streaked black hair out of thin, narrowed eyes, a straight nose cutting a clear outline against the sky. The figure is tall and lean, lanky limbs and bony elbows and slightly hunched from what seems like world-weariness; their clothes look thin and light, nowhere near enough to guard them from the bite of an ocean’s wrath. One hand is tucked in a pocket. In the other, a small, metallic object is held tightly like a lifeline.

Clover gulps. He does not know this man. And yet, it is with the same familiarity, that same nostalgic connection that he feels to this island of Patch that Clover looks upon this man, his heart aching as if seeing an old, long-lost friend. He just has not met him yet.

And before he knows it, he raises a hand to cup his mouth, shielding his voice from being drowned out by stormy seas as he calls, “Hey, what’re you doing up there? The storm’s picking up, you know.”

That face turns to look at Clover, and red eyes peek out from underneath thick lashes and a furrowed brow and all Clover can do is stare, watching this handsome man proudly step off that rock as if he is walking down the steps off a throne, strolling towards him with all the ease of a weary king regarding his loyal subjects. When he is close enough to Clover for him to see the man’s stubble, the shadows under his eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth engrained into pale, smooth skin, the man holds out the object in his hand- a small, silver flask- as an offering, grinning impishly.

On instinct, Clover takes it, and without breaking eye contact, he uncaps it, takes a swig, and feels cool whisky pour down the back of his throat, burning him from the inside out, warming him up against the frigid stormy air.

The man’s smile widens, and for the first time in his life, Clover actually looks at another person’s wrist intentionally, for the heat pooling in his gut cannot be coming from the alcohol alone.


	2. Chapter 2

They do not exchange names. Why, Clover does not know, but when he asks, the other man simply provides random pieces of information instead. He is thirty-six years old to Clover’s thirty, claiming workplace stress and the desire to be a silver fox the reasons for his early greys with such a straight face that Clover almost takes him seriously; however, as Clover feels his own face heat up at the man’s bold assertion, the man throws his head back to laugh, all wide, open-mouthed guffaws leaving crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his red eyes which lighten in amusement at Clover’s shock. All Clover can do is sigh, handing back the flask with a wry grin and murmuring, “So what brings you out to this side of-“

And their fingers touch, and just like that, Clover feels his head spinning.

There’s a flash of light behind his eyelids, the heat growing within his gut absolutely spine-numbing, leaving him breathless and blinded and paralyzed; for a brief moment he wonders whether the liquor had been spiked, whether this is the end, whether his hubris has brought him too far. Or, perhaps the light is merely an arc of lightning flashing brightly out over the open seas, a sign of the storm to come. There is no true way to know, so Clover can only wait until he is freed bodily from the confines of his own stillness. When he is finally granted this reprieve, he can only step back, waiting for the blood to rush through his veins once more, for his heart to beat strongly again, for his lungs to expand and collapse and fill with that sea-soaked air he had been relishing in just moments before that this man’s touch stole away from him so effortlessly. He shudders, then glances up at the man’s arm again, just to make sure. There is but a thin black leather band over a bony wrist, but knowing how much space the mark upon Clover’s own wrist occupies, he can imagine the horseshoe or rabbit’s foot or whatever ridiculous emblem which should represent his own personality upon another’s flesh engrained into pale, almost gaunt skin. Theoretically, he should be able to see something, _anything,_ underneath that band, peeking out from below.

There is nothing.

That realization is almost otherworldly, not in its profound splendour nor crushing heartbreak. No, the realization is almost startling in its absence of effect, how it sucks away all of that heady surprise and confusion and joy and shock into a void, leaving nothing but the wind whipping through his hair and a chill in his bones as the sea spray and crashing foam picks up against the shoreline. The heat in his belly must be from nothing but the alcohol; it lingers, the taste rich upon Clover’s tongue. It is almost a travesty that something which tastes so refined has been relegated to living in a small flask.

Finally looking back to the man’s face, Clover finds the man watches him with a mix of confusion and amusement and worry, his brow furrowed and his previous amusement nowhere to be seen. Clover smiles, a weak attempt to diffuse the tension which has built up like a tidal wave upon that brief moment of contact. For a moment, he wonders if he should shake the man’s hand, just to be sure- if their wrists touch, then perhaps the chain reaction would commence and the world would explode into colour, light, sound, whatever else finding your soulmate required; but Clover does not offer his hand, instead gesturing vaguely at the rock upon which the man had stood so serenely before Clover’s arrival. He does not know how exactly soulmates work, nor does he care to find out, he tells himself.

The elder grins, impish and years younger than the permanent lines in his face belies. “There’s a little cove over there,” he explains dryly, taking a swig of his flask without hesitation, “-and I was thinkin’ about goin’ for a little swim, myself.” His voice is dry, gravelly and hoarse, grating coming from any man but this creature who is standing so calmly in the midst of an approaching storm.

Despite the knowledge that this man is not his soulmate at all- after all, what are the chances of actually locating his one true person across the world on a tiny island like this?- Clover still cannot help but feel fascinated by this figure so at ease upon the crackling sands. “Are you a local?”

“Not anymore,” the man replies easily, a sly mix of mournful and curious and eager as his eyes rove over Clover’s built form, leaving Clover feeling both vulnerable and entranced. “…You stayin’ around here, boy scout?” When Clover nods, barely even registering the odd nickname as much as he understands the _heat_ behind the tone use to say it, the man adds, “Alright, let’s go.” Clover has no time to react as the man tucks his flask away and begins walking back north, calling over his shoulder to Clover, “Can’t you see the storm’s coming in?”

For a long moment, Clover wonders whether he should turn and look at the apparent cove that is so plentiful to keep him occupied over the next few days, but as a distant thunderclap finally resonates through the sky, carrying over the ocean like a messenger’s horn signaling the start of the long, blood-drenched night, Clover decides that tonight shall not be the night to take chances with his luck, with the water that calls to him, with his little pastimes and his curiosity.

It is already enough of a danger that when this strange man beckons for him to follow, Clover obeys.

To his surprise, this man is genuinely a good partner to speak to; they are laughing and joking and teasing, the crunching of seashells and grit under their heels the soundtrack to their banter. Before they can enter the hotel, the man ducks his head into a tiny unnamed establishment just two blocks away from where they shall find refuge during the torrential rains. Only a few moments later, he is back out, a paper bag carrying what is clearly food in one hand with another bag filled with the shape of a bottle cradled in his other arm. Clover offers to help, but the man teases him for being too chivalrous, to which Clover winks back and holds open the door; the smile the other man sends him in response to this easy game they have unwittingly begun to play is all Clover needs to know that even though this storm has cut short his adventure upon Patch’s shores, he will surely be entertained throughout the night.

As they enter the hotel, the front desk unmanned for a moment as they trudge upstairs to the third floor to find Clover’s room, the man comments as he runs his fingers along slightly peeled wallpaper and yellowed varnishes, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in this place.”

“Where have you been staying, if not here? Are there more hotels at the top of the cliffs?”

The man does not respond, instead pulling off his jacket and hanging it by the door, rolling up dark sleeves to reveal toned forearms and taking a seat at the small dining table; for a moment, Clover feels a little embarrassed, for his frugality is in plain view- but bringing people to his hotel room is usually never part of his vacation plans, so he does not know how to even begin to play off any teasing to come.

There are no remarks, however. The man simply opens up his food along with Clover’s share, pulls out two cups from the bag, and kicks the other chair away from the table so Clover can have a seat; it’s oddly crass, but the daring glint in red eyes begs to see what kind of response Clover will give to this kind of aggression, so Clover is happy to oblige and take a seat, unfazed, merely pulling off his jacket and sweater and propping his chin upon his hands, leaning elbows and muscled arms onto the table, watching the elder with a small, expectant smile. The other man’s eyes light up and he immediately pours Clover a glass as the storm begins in earnest, tree branches knocking violently against Clover’s window in the gusting winds. Clover does not hear any of it, too entranced in the voice of the other man as he begins to speak.

He expects a lot from this night, after all. He does not think this man will disappoint him.

For the next few hours, Clover allows himself to slip into what can only be a fantasy world, something surreal and unimaginable; the light of the bedside lamp creeps through the thick lampshade just enough to cast a muffled, warm orange glow around the room, the floral prints in the wallpaper fading away in the darkness of night as the sun properly sets amidst the storm, leaving nothing but flashes of raging lighting behind to illuminate their way. The other man tires of the storm quickly, drawing the thick curtains over the windows with a beer in his other hand, sighing audibly in relief once the sounds of torrential rainfall against the glass finally subside thanks to the new barrier; it is in this new silence that red eyes grow heavy and half-lidded and wanton, that rough, sensual voice finally deciding to speak, asking questions, poking and prodding at Clover’s ordinary life, somehow turning every word Clover spins into a story, a tale, an event.

Never before has Clover ever found himself hanging so raptly upon every word of another, this stranger managing to paint the simple mundanity of Clover’s life, his job in a small corporate cubicle, his two-story childhood home and tiny adulthood apartment and his routines day by day, with such vibrant colours that even Clover feels invested anew into his life. Perhaps it is the drink that is doing this to him. A part of him faintly ponders whether that first flask was indeed spiked, after all; his gut is still warm, growing warmer with every inch of distance closed between the two as food is slowly cleared off the table, leaving behind coy smiles and murmured words and giggling, drunken laughter. It is companionable. It is romantic. It is the most goddamned natural thing in the world, and Clover cannot believe his sheer luck, absolutely incredulous at the fact that he has somehow managed to find someone so ridiculously entertaining and engaging and intriguing within his first few proper hours on this vacation on this tiny little island. It feels like a ruse.

Clover thinks triumphantly to himself as he listens to the man speak that he was right all along. There is no need to look for soulmates; he wants to proclaim those words out into the heavens, wants to scream them back at the howling winds roaring outside. He does not need this accursed birthmark to tell him who he is destined to care for.

Yet, when the man passes out eventually, curled up like a cat upon the singular armchair in the room, Clover is silently grateful that he has spent so much of his time and effort throughout his life working out, for he is able to turn off that magical, soft amber light by the bed and scoop the man up and lay him down underneath freshly-washed sheets, smoothing the man’s hair away from his face with a touch so gentle Clover can scarcely believe it is his own hand which is performing such a delicate act of tenderness. Clover pauses for a moment, contemplating whether it would be proper to undress the other, to make him more comfortable so that the only suffering he shall have in the morning is the hangover that will surely come his way. With a sigh, he decides to do it, turning the light back on and readying himself for bed before helping the stranger remove his jewelry, at least.

The wristband is easy to remove, and every brief contact with the man’s flesh sends shivers down Clover’s spine despite performing such a harmless action. He cannot blame this on the alcohol any longer, for his entire body is flushed with desire and happiness unlike he has ever felt. For a moment, Clover smiles, glancing over the skin of his wrist- it is smooth and supple and-

No, it is not.

Clover pauses, gently tracing his fingertips around skin that is rough and ridged; scar tissue, with grooves and fissures from what could only be a terrible burn, travel up the man’s arm to underneath his sleeve, pale enough to be unnoticeable in the light without closer examination.

Trembling, Clover looks at his own wrist. He has ignored it all the while, for why look at something that clearly does not matter while someone so riveting is standing before your eyes?

The birthmark is no longer tan, a faded outline that could never be erased nor mistaken as anything other than his soulmate mark. Now, it is a veritable tattoo, vibrant and lively in the same red as the man’s eyes, blood-red feathers surrounding this gear-like iris in the center detailed with such fine strokes that Clover almost gags; the heat in his body feels like a lie, a betrayal, a strange twist of fate to which he cannot concede.

He does not know what this all means. Or, if he does, he will not admit it. All he knows is that he is no longer sleepy, and the storm is finally passing, and the ocean air is always the sweetest after the seas settle and the last dregs of rainfall sprinkle the earth in an attempt to apologize for the water’s anger; Clover dresses himself and packs his backpack and grabs his gear and heads out of the hotel, leaving behind a wristband retied upon a scarred arm and a man expecting to unknowingly see his soulmate come morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Ever since he was young, Qrow Branwen has hated his soulmate mark more than anything.

It appeared suddenly upon his right wrist when he was six years old, an odd bruise that wouldn’t heal for weeks until it finally solidified and bloomed into a proper, identifiable shape; Raven teased and bullied him for it, poking fun at the little ‘flower’ upon his wrist and how ‘girly’ it was with her six-year-old fire and tenacity, in that way that only she ever could with her red eyes which mirrored his burning in the sunlight and her sneer wicked and wild and her baby teeth, tiny and full of gaps between each one, bared like an animal. Her mark was cool, after all, with a dragon made of flames spiraling around her left bicep like a bracelet, just as ferocious and vicious as she. After that, Qrow ignored his mark, pretending it was just a bruise, just a cut, just a weird stain because he didn’t want a _flower_ on his wrist.

Then, he learned it was called a ‘clover’. The picture book he read in the orphanage’s library said so. It made him feel a bit better, knowing it was just a plant and not as pretty as a flower. Maybe his soulmate would be someone who worked with plants, or could make things grow, or could do _something_ cool; clovers were lucky, too, whatever that meant.

But as time passed, he and Raven both knew with their fingers intertwined and their messy black hair falling into their eyes that soulmates weren’t something they would ever experience, because first and foremost they needed to _survive._ The care system in the kingdom of Mistral was a farce, allowing more children to slip through the cracks than they caught, allowing more and more monsters to come into their offices and take what few children survived away under the guise of good parenthood and loving families awaiting them. He learned from experience that that wasn’t true, that love was never present, that he wasn’t ever going to be free until he was an adult who could defend himself; even when he tried to run away with Raven, people merely caught them and brought them back to the center and separated him from his twin, and that separation was painful enough to warrant them never trying that manoeuvre ever again.

He lost his soulmate mark in a terrible oil burn at his first job just as he was growing up into a gangly teen, all bony limbs and hands too big for his skinny pubescent frame. It had hurt like nothing else, and when the damage had finally healed, all that was left behind was scar tissue and grafts to replace the sheer blistering carnage left behind from that accident. Everyone around him bemoaned the fact that he would never see the majesty of his clover gaining colour. It did not affect Qrow, though, for the odds of meeting someone who could supposedly fill his heart the way the stories told was naught but a fleeting fairy tale of happiness that he had been told to forget long, long before his injury, and his lack of a mark meant nothing but another indication from the world that he wasn’t destined for that joy.

So, no, Qrow did not care about clovers and soulmates and tattoos unfurling upon their bodies. He did not need connection if he had Raven. Sometimes, he wished that he make a new mark himself with Raven; at least then, no one could ever again try and justify taking her away from him.

But then, adulthood came and their first chance to move out on their own and make a semblance of a living guided them to Vale, the city so flat and pre-planned and peaceful, so unlike the towering tiered mountainside of Mistral that gave way for slums that only promised suffering. Vale was disgustingly calm in comparison to their lives, and the sun that shone that day when they finally managed to find a small house for rent, already occupied by two friends needing two more housemates to make the payments, would forever be engrained in Qrow’s mind, for that sun was embodied perfectly in the bright smiles of Taiyang Xiao Long and the warmth of Summer Rose. Taiyang was every bit of sunshine and life and warmth and _stupidity_ that Qrow had never encountered before, with all of the clumsy, naïve open-heartedness of a child that had never truly lost his light; Summer balanced him out with her quiet, withdrawn nature, her smile gentle despite her biting wit and unyielding sarcasm. The two of them wanted a pair of housemates, and Qrow and Raven thought it would be a fresh start.

And then, Raven and Taiyang had shaken hands, and their arms had glowed and morphed and changed colour, and they realized that somehow, despite the billions of people on the planet who ran into each other every day, despite all of their odds against them, they had managed to find their soulmates.

When the band upon Raven’s bicep had begun to glow, tinting yellow and gold and orange, bringing the plain dragon to life upon her arm, Qrow could not believe it at all, but he did not lament. He did not feel bitterness, he did not ache; how could he, when Taiyang’s eyes widened looking at his sister as if the blond had just witnessed the most dear thing in the world coming into his life? How could Qrow begrudge Raven from the arms of a man who so clearly understood just how precious life was, how fleeting and lucky they all were to be in this moment together, to have met the one person who was supposed to fill up the hole in his heart that he had never even known was there amidst all of his sunny smiles and innocent happiness?

Taiyang became his best friend, his brother; and after the wedding, his brother-in-law, too. Qrow was happy back then. Qrow had found a family.

But Summer Rose had always been a part of that family, too. As Qrow earned money in menial work, she was the one who encouraged him to write tests and get into schools, to apply for scholarships and work his way into higher education. She was the one who had made him coffee when he was exhausted from long nights spent hunched over textbooks; she was the breeze which lightened up the room as he moaned about projects and case studies and having to go to work each night after classes. She was the one who celebrated with him the most when he found success at last, a career and a _future_ he never thought he’d have finally within his reach. In that little house, while Raven and Taiyang chased their domestic bliss, Summer was by Qrow’s side, watching over her childhood friend and her new sister with love and care and tenderness that only she could give.

Yet, Qrow had known from the get-go that Summer Rose would never be content. He himself spent far too many hours watching her expression twist and darken in quiet, unspoken grief, her heart shattering behind soft smiles and gentle reprimands whenever she saw Raven and Taiyang openly loving one another; oh, how Qrow _longed_ so desperately to wipe away the tears which fell from her eyes in the evenings, her quiet sobs filtering through the wall his bedroom shared with hers, knowing that she was weeping for a love she would never have; because even though Summer Rose was in love with Taiyang Xiao Long and always had been, she would never belong with him the way Raven Branwen did.

Qrow understood her pain. Too many nights were spent staring at the scars spanning his right forearm and bemoaning his misfortune, for he would have given anything for that clover that had once been there to be the flower, the rose, he had so desperately wanted to avoid as a child.

And yet, Qrow didn’t understand. He never would have been able to comprehend the sheer suffering experienced by Summer Rose until one day when Taiyang, after realizing that Raven and Qrow had never had an outing upon the beach, insisted on taking them to the sunniest spot in his hometown of Patch to sunbathe. The island of Patch was always of quiet, rural living and sea folk basking in the ocean spray, the beaches pristine and beautiful and untouched by commercialization. It was upon that island, after Taiyang finally cut his hair short after years of Raven’s insistence that he looked too unkempt, that Qrow finally saw the tiny mark behind Taiyang’s ear. It was a birthmark, Taiyang said, a wry smile on his face as he shrugged it off, clearly never having paid too much attention to it.

But Qrow knew what it was. And it was upon that beach, when Summer tied her hair back for the first time since Qrow had met her, that Qrow realized why Summer would never truly be happy for her friends, for the tiny yellow-gold mirrored dragon emblem behind her right ear matching the tiny little white rose behind Taiyang’s and Qrow finally knew that soulmates were just as cruel and unforgiving as life itself, for Taiyang had somehow been given not one, but two soulmates; and as long as Qrow’s sister was happy, Qrow’s love would never be.

He never said a word about his realization. Summer knew her fate was to stand by Raven and Taiyang’s side, so she lived that to her best potential, cheering them on with every success and comforting them after every failure. Qrow contented himself to being by her side, for clover, rose, it didn’t matter; he was going to make Summer happy in whatever way he could, and if that meant he would have to watch over her watching over Raven and Taiyang forever, then so be it.

Raven left Taiyang after six years of happiness. Qrow should have seen it coming, for Raven was always someone who was more angry, more aggressive, more wild and untamed and bitter and resentful than anyone else; after a lifetime of being struck down and demeaned and debased and broken by the world itself, Raven’s trust for others was barely existent, and even though Qrow begged her to stay and accept that she deserved the happiness in the life the four of them could make in that little house in a suburb of Vale, Raven packed up her bags and left, desperate to find the solace from her trauma that no one but she herself would ever be able to give her.

She left behind a newborn. Little Yang had Raven’s face and eyes and wild hair, although her colouring could belong to no one but Taiyang, her blonde lashes and ruddy cheeks and beaming smile the embodiment of sunshine. Raven left behind her daughter and her soulmate and her best friend and her brother, and Qrow and Summer were forced to pick up the pieces that Taiyang could not on his own.

Qrow would always regret the day he took a photograph of the rose behind Taiyang’s ear, the day he confronted him and Summer for their matching tattoos. He would always regret the day that the two of them, in their aching grief after losing their love and sister, found solace in each other, in knowing that happiness could be rebuilt and that Yang deserved a mother, a family- that Summer could be the missing piece that had been there all along. And Qrow watched over them, feeling his heart ache the same way that he knew Summer’s must have for those six long years watching Taiyang and Raven in love. Qrow suffered, feeling little Yang bounce burbling and beaming upon his knee as Summer announced her pregnancy a year after Raven left. Qrow suffered, watching little baby Ruby come into this world, knowing that he would _die_ to protect the smiles of his two little nieces, but also knowing that he would never see himself within the faces of those little girls the way Taiyang could.

Summer passed away of an influenza that just wouldn’t get better after almost six years of happiness with Taiyang, and Qrow was left behind to pick up the pieces yet again, this time wiping away the tears of little Yang and even littler Ruby and a broken man whom he would always, despite everything, love as his brother. Together, they buried Summer atop a beautiful cliff surrounded by fiery red and orange forest on the island of Patch, for Summer always meant _home,_ and together, they built a little cabin close enough so the girls could have picnics by her grave and grow up knowing that their mother was watching over them, always. And as the tattoo behind Taiyang’s ear faded away into a scar, the mark on his bicep refusing to disappear as a constant reminder of the love he had lost, Qrow finally made up his mind. Soulmates would only cause pain and suffering. He would not regret losing his mark.

The girls are teenagers now. They have uncovered their own soulmate marks, and they often dream aloud who might be their one destined person living somewhere upon this planet, their childish fantasies full of hope and joy; Taiyang merely smiles and encourages them, for they do not know the sordid history behind their father’s soulmate marks. Taiyang wears an armband around what remains of Raven’s mark, and the girls do not ask what lies underneath, so they believe that there is nothing but joy destined for those who find their soulmates.

For Taiyang, Qrow would argue that they are correct. Twelve years of happiness with two soulmates have led to eight years more of raising his daughters on his own, and despite the hardships, Taiyang Xiao Long’s smile is always the most brilliant when looking at his little girls. Qrow understands, for Ruby and Yang mean everything to him, too.

And yet, as he stands atop that rock, looking down into the deep fishing hole tucked in a cove soon to be flooded by stormy tides, Qrow wonders for a brief moment whether he should jump into the waters underneath the cliff where Summer eternally resides. She had always loved the sea, but eight years after her burial, the shift between the greenery of summertime into the oranges and yellows and reds of Patch’s forests upon the cliffs of the main island above the shoreline still makes Qrow sick, for he knows that within weeks, those trees will be barren and dead and skeletal as winter comes along, and Qrow’s empty bones will have to suffer through yet another winter’s ache alone- the alcohol which he has given himself up to will never be enough to keep him warm the way Summer’s smile always had.

Perhaps that is why he listens to the man who approaches him, offering a hand and a coy smile. Perhaps that is why he joins him in his hotel room, for when he shakes this stranger’s gloved hand, his touch is warm despite the frigid, icy wetness hanging in the air, and the electricity which crackles between them cannot be attributed to the brewing lightning up above. Perhaps that is why he offers him drink and food and company, for a hotel room with tacky wallpaper feels infinitely more intimate and welcoming that the embrace of the ocean raging war with the cliffs outside and Qrow has not felt heat with another in this way for years, and Qrow is _lonely._

So, for a night, he allows himself to bask in the comforting smiles of this younger man in the confines of a tiny hotel room, and Qrow plays pretend for the first time since Ruby and Yang were children; he imagines a life where this man would provide him the happiness that life seems so content to tear away from Qrow’s hands. It is for but a night. And when the storm ends, he shall visit Summer’s grave again, and go see his nieces, and remind himself that there are more things to live for than warmth.


	4. Chapter 4

His head is pounding between his ears when he finally awakens, his mouth dry and throat parched as his eyelids flutter open, taking in the sight of the hotel room he has unwittingly commandeered along with the carnage the night of drinking and overeating has left behind. It is not nearly as bad as one could expect; everything has been neatly tidied up for housekeeping to take downstairs, leaving behind nothing but Qrow’s jacket neatly hung over the back of a chair and a set of hotel-provided toiletries upon the table, clearly for Qrow’s use. For a moment, Qrow wants to laugh, but the mere action of sitting up makes his head spin slightly, so he contents himself with drinking the glass of water sitting at his bedside. The smile upon his lips is automatic, glowing, imagining the look of the man who has left the glass there; Qrow is under no illusions that there was chemistry between them the night before, and now, he is more eager than ever to wash up and greet a new day alongside his new companion. He is oddly giddy at the prospect. It… it feels nice.

However, as he glances around and pokes his head into the washroom, he realizes that the man is not there, nor are his belongings. Every trace of the younger man is gone, and he does not know what to say. For just a brief heartbeat, he wonders if the night before had been a dream, a delusion brought on by his loneliness as his mind’s feeble attempt to keep him out of the water before the storm.

But as he looks over the neatly cleaned-up remains of their dinner and drinks, there are clearly two takeout containers, two sets of cutlery, two serving’s worth of food and beverage waste left behind in a neat stack by the garbage can in the corner. He could not have imagined jade green eyes boring into his soul, brown hair that looked almost red falling across a wide forehead; he could not have imagined the warmth in the man’s low, soothing laughter, the sound deep and rumbling in Qrow’s chest despite the normal smooth tenor of that voice. Qrow could not have imagined it, and yet, the man is gone. The idea of being left behind is terrifying, palpable.

So, in a frenzy, Qrow totters to his feet and cleans himself up in a flash, shrugging on his jacket as he races out of the hotel door and down the road leading to the shoreline. The pounding echo of his feet upon asphalt turns into the crunching of shells, debris and shifting sands within minutes, the wind whipping through his hair stinging his eyes. Qrow does not pay it any mind, too focused on making his way to the southwestern cove as quickly as possible, unsure of where else he would be able to find the young man who, for one night, has managed to make Qrow feel _happy_ again. He does not want to give up on this man.

The seas are always unusually calm after a storm, and soon Qrow finds himself slipping on seaweed which was washed up amidst high, stormy tides the night before. The scars of the ocean’s assault upon the cliffs are wet still, salt drying in the sunlight shining under its rays, leaving the tang of brine in his nose even more assaulting than normal. Qrow races onwards, eventually rounding the corner and finding what he is looking for; a tall, built figure wearing an unfamiliar windbreaker seated on that same rock upon which Qrow had stood the day before, a fishing pole in his hands as he quietly stares at the waters, his large backpack sitting down at ground level and a thermos by his side. When Qrow sees the younger man, so serene upon that clear morn, a piece of him crumbles inside; he does not know which one, but he knows that if this man is indeed real, Qrow believes firmly that he can patch that piece back together again.

He does not call out to him, instead plodding over slowly, pushing his hair out of his eyes and catching his breath, ignoring the spinning of the world as his headache comes to assail him yet again now that the adrenaline spike is fading away. When he is close enough, he climbs onto the smaller rocks by the man’s side, eventually finding a place in the neighbouring stone to sit and watch the man’s fishing line bob peacefully in the risen waters.

“How are you feeling?” the younger murmurs. It is striking how impassive his voice sounds, stabbing at Qrow’s heart with surprising force.

“Shitty headache. Not sick, though, thankfully. I appreciated the water.”

The younger shrugs noncommittally, as if the night before had been nothing to him. Qrow wonders if it was. “I thought you’d need it- glad it helped. Lucky guess.”

“I was…” Qrow has to pause, appreciating fully- with the weight of his hangover pressing down into his skull- that the amount of vulnerability needed to put these words to voice is so unlike him; and yet, he chooses to continue anyways. “I was expecting you to be there in the morning.”

The younger man’s mouth is set in a grim line, his eyes fixated upon the water as if he knows what lurks beneath the surface. He is still, holding his position silently, waiting for a bite. “I was expecting nothing in this trip,” he breathes at last.

Qrow does not know why those words hang so heavy in the air, more ominous than the storm clouds the previous evening. In an attempt to change the tone of this encounter, he asks the man for how long he is staying in Patch.

The response is crushing. “I was going to stay a week. I… I think I’ll head home tonight, though.”

“Atlas, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Gulls caw distantly, no doubt collecting the creatures which have washed ashore after the previous night’s waves. Their piercing cries make Qrow wince. “But you’ve barely been here twenty-four hours. That’s not much of a vacation.”

“I told you. I wasn’t expecting anything.”

That weary, exhausted remark lights something within Qrow, and before he can restrain himself, he finds himself pushing the man’s shoulder so that the younger is facing him, paying no attention to the way the fishing pole dips and swerves and ruffles the calmness of the waters within that tiny cove, a dozen little shadows under the surface all swimming away from the bait in a heartbeat. Looking into the younger’s face, he opens his mouth to snarl and snip and demand reparations, because why the _fuck_ has he come to Patch to stir up Qrow’s heart if he only intended to leave after a day and make Qrow feel like his life will always play to the same tune-

And he sees a green, familiar shape upon the man’s lapel. It is a brooch, Qrow realizes, the words dying in his mouth as he moves his hands to touch the emerald four-leaf clover which is pinned above the man’s heart, its shape so recognizable despite over twenty years since he has last seen the form upon his own wrist. Qrow freezes, his breath caught in his throat as his fingers, unbidden, trace the same outline which he had memorized over the course of ten years of wearing a clover upon his own flesh.

The man is wearing gloves. Silently, he reaches down and grabs the man’s hand; the younger obliges his unspoken query, and with a stony mask he slips a large, callused palm and long fingers out of a black glove, showcasing fingers which are scarred over years of work and play, neatly-maintained nailbeds, and a hint of red under his sleeve. Qrow waits for him to roll up his sleeve, and even without a word, the younger understands to expose his right wrist. The sight awaiting Qrow is one which sends him reeling, for this tattoo is so familiar and yet so different from one burned into his memory that he almost wants to vomit; this design is almost a perfect mirror image to the tattoo which still resides hidden upon Taiyang’s left bicep- an eye formed by feathers and time. However, Taiyang’s larger soulmate mark is the jet-black of Raven’s hair; the iris the face of a clock, whereas this mark bears all the cogs and gears and internal workings of time scribbled in the same shade of red as Qrow’s own eyes.

“You realized it.”

The younger nods.

“Then… why leave?”

With a heavy sigh, the younger pauses, drawing his attention away from Qrow to recast his line, waiting for the bait to settle in a different spot in the water, reassuming his position of patience and poise until the lure’s ripples have ceased. Then, he begins to speak in the same, lovely tenor which had lulled Qrow into such a sense of security and safety the night before that Qrow had fallen asleep; he speaks of his parents, of two unfulfilled soulmate markings who have made happiness from nothing anyways; of his own journeys across the world to find a love which he never thought he’d receive, wondering whether it would be worth it even if he did manage to find another marked wrist; of his quiet acceptance of a life of bachelordom spent fishing in quiet locales such as this one on yearly vacations. He speaks each word as matter-of-fact, as bitter reality, as he explains how joyful he had been to think that Qrow’s own wrist was bare, the greatest proof possible that his parents’ way of life was valid and that he, too, didn’t need to rely on such weak things as fate in order to give him happiness, only to realize while tucking the sleeping man safely underneath the covers of his bed that the skin had simply been burned beyond recognition, and the heat he felt against Qrow’s skin was nothing more than a trick of destiny, a thread binding them for which Clover never asked.

He never thought much of soulmates before meeting Qrow. Now, it feels like a betrayal, he says, to admit just how much he _wants_ to ignore that feeling, to allow himself to fall under the older man’s spell; with every self-assured word which falls from his lips, Qrow cannot tell whether it is the alcohol or his own heartbreak that brings such a sour, acidic taste into his mouth, making him want to vomit as he realizes that this man, too, does not believe in soulmates, but for entirely different reasons. The story of his parents makes Qrow want to weep; if what he speaks is truth, then maybe Qrow should never have told Taiyang about Summer’s mark and tried to make a life with her instead, for they do not need soulmate marks to find happiness, right?

He thinks on this. He knows it is not true, and despite all of the regret he carries, if given the opportunity, he would do it all over again, for the thought of not having Ruby in his life is enough to make him truly ill.

The younger balances the fishing pole between his knees and unpins the brooch from his lapel, and before Qrow can say another word, he reaches over and grabs Qrow’s collar, pinning the green and silver clover overtop of Qrow’s heart. “Since yours was lost,” he intones quietly. Qrow cannot tear his eyes away from the younger’s face; for the first time, the man truly looks torn, his thick brow furrowed and eyes glazed over and lips curled in a slight frown as he processes the weight of this act, the weight of his _acceptance,_ that Qrow is indeed meant to be his other half, born into the world six years before him- waiting for him all that time on different continents, somehow still coming together at last.

Perhaps clovers are lucky, after all.

For a long time, the two are quiet; the younger stares at the glassy waters of the cove, and Qrow stares up at the top of the cliff where he knows his first true love is buried, his fingers tracing the clover now upon his chest over and over and over again. The sense of familiarity, of _rightness,_ within the action makes him want to weep, for never in his thirty-six years has he ever experienced this sense of true peace in the world, but the other man’s presence by his side feels like the most natural thing in the world. Under the influence of nighttime and alcohol and the buzzing in the air that only an incoming storm can cause, it had felt like perhaps that had just been an illusion, that kindness and comfort which Qrow had experienced in the hotel room the night before; now, in broad, sober daylight, the wall of worn granite looming high above their heads shimmering in the light, the trees above rustling in the calming sea breeze, he finds that the sensation is only intensified now that the pin is within his grasp.

This is his soulmate, and if he wants, he can get up and leave him behind. The man will return to Atlas while Qrow goes back to his work in Vale, visiting the girls and Taiyang on the weekends as he is wont to do. They will never cross paths again, and life will move on; Qrow will be able to rest easy knowing that he has never given his heart to someone, knowing that they may just move on, like Raven did to Taiyang; knowing that they may pass on, like Summer did to them all.

He does not want to open his heart again.

The growling of his stomach is what knocks the two out of their silence. The younger man murmurs dryly, “There’s food in my bag. C’mon, let’s eat.” And with such amicable ease, he reaches down and pulls up his pack, undoing zippers and ties to produce food for them both.

Qrow finally turns his eyes away from Summer’s grave, looking back at the other man’s efficient setup upon the stones. “Shall we eat on the sand? Probably more comfortable.”

The other man nods and smiles, all rueful, agreeable acceptance, and the two make themselves a spot on the sand. Qrow’s slacks are not meant to sit on jagged shores, but he pays it no mind, instead accepting the small, humble meal given to him which the younger has clearly picked up and packed from the grocer earlier that day. They eat in silence, the boisterous laughter from the night before nowhere to be heard; and as Qrow gives up on his meal, contenting himself to watching the other eat his own food with his eyes locked dreamily upon the horizon, Qrow begins to speak. He tells the other of Raven Branwen, of the twin who had left him behind. He tells the other of Summer Rose, the woman who had birthed one niece and mothered them both, who had loved them all. He tells the other of Taiyang and Yang and Ruby, the only reasons Qrow finds himself still breathing.

And he tells the other of his problem with soulmates.

The younger listens attentively as Qrow speaks, hanging on every word just as he had the night before. When Qrow gestures towards the forest above, to the clearing in which Summer overlooks the ocean forever and always, the younger looks up, too; he pauses, jade eyes thoughtful and melancholy as he breathes in the words which Qrow spins alongside the smooth, fresh tang of the sea, never shying away from the heartbreak that has painted so much of Qrow’s life. He does not look away from Summer’s memorial. He simply lives in it, lives in the knowledge that his soulmate’s heart once belonged to another who would never love him back, that his soulmate’s scars run far deeper than burns upon his arm.

At the end of it all, he seems to have made up his mind. He murmurs, “Tell me about Vale. I’ve never been.”

So, Qrow does.

And when the other man is contented, the man asks, “Tell me about what is else in Patch. This is my first time here.”

So, Qrow does.

And then, the younger man holds out his right hand, wrist exposed and Qrow’s emblem, the same colour as Qrow’s eyes, on display for all the world to see. There is a resolve in his gaze, hardening it, bringing him to life in a way that Qrow has not yet seen upon the man. He is no longer hiding his soulmate marking. His eyes flit between the top of the cliff and Qrow, and that determination, that curiosity, that _hope,_ strengthens. “I’ve never gone on a vacation with someone else before, but now’s as good a time as any. My name is Clover Ebi. And you are?”

And Qrow throws his head back and laughs a laugh with a depth and strength and _life_ he has not felt within himself in years. If he had asked for the younger’s name, perhaps this would have gone faster. Perhaps not.

He takes the offered hand and squeezes, then slides his hand up the younger’s forearm until his wrist is pressing against Clover’s; the heat, the fire and electricity and _warmth_ that shoots through his body is staggering at the contact, and he realizes that there is something there underneath those burn scars that continues to remember the soul of this man, something that hadn’t come into being until Clover himself had entered the world. He will take this man to meet Summer, Qrow realizes faintly. Clover has a week of vacation, and during that week, he shall take Clover to meet Summer and Taiyang, and he shall tell the story of his scar and his soulmate tattoo to his nieces, for they deserve to know that there is someone out there that, despite all the odds against them, may very well fall into their arms one day that has a mark that matches their own. And then, after that week is up, he shall decide whether his home is still in Patch with his family, or in Vale with his work, or in Mistral with his earliest memories, or whether it is time to uproot himself entirely and explore the northern, icy continent of Solitas. Maybe he can learn to love the winter months, too.

“The name’s Qrow Branwen.”

Clover’s smile, from his lips to his eyes, shines with curiosity and warmth and affection, and Qrow realizes faintly that for once in his life, he cannot wait to see the snow; for once in his life, he knows that when the snow falls, he will be cold no longer.

**_-fin-_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! 
> 
> Here are my other FG works in V7 canon:  
> [jigsaws and pieces we made to fit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748414), [a crow and his trinkets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845935), [Control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873457), [Things We Said](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245074), [Cameo Lover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844532), [Corvus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25439404)
> 
> Here are my AU FG works:  
> [Save the Last Dance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430089), [Bite Me, Pretty Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217998), [Way Off Track](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24604045), [Home to Roost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785509), [Moonshine Smile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24138832)
> 
>  _Other RWBY series:_  
>  If you want to see more of Qrow in canon, check out my [Qrow Branwen-Centric Fic series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448095)
> 
> Here are [AUs both set in canon and out](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690948) for RWBY. 
> 
> If you want to stay completely within RWBY's canon, here is [another series of completely canon-compliant fics for you.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229)
> 
> If you're looking for a long series in canon and like Team JNPR, here's a series that's a [rewrite of Vol. 1-6 through Pyrrha and Nora's eyes!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448071)
> 
> Cheers for reading, y'all! See you in my other fics, and let me know what you thought of this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


End file.
